


Secrets and Scars

by orphan_account



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M, also annatar being a dick but w/e, feat. tyelpes self esteem and family issues, mentions of tyelpes doomed family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2014-01-06
Packaged: 2018-01-07 18:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Celebrimbor shares secrets with Annatar, and Annatar doesn't realize he has a Celebrimbor Issue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets and Scars

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Secrets and Scars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4368200) by [shadowoftheday654321](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowoftheday654321/pseuds/shadowoftheday654321)



Celebrimbor has scars, not as many as other warriors Annatar had seen throughout his life, but Celebrimbor has scars none the less. Jagged lines of sliver scrawled across his body by a flashing blade or hook. And there were days, when the sun was low in the sky and they lazed naked in bed, when Annatar would ask where they came from.

At first Celebrimbor would brush his questions aside, “The past belongs in the past,” he would say, “I've no desire to revisit it.”

Annatar never pushed him further. He was a guest in Eregion after all, and it would not do it rouse its lords ire.

One day though, when the sun had set and the moon peered in from open balcony doors, Celebrimbor told him.

“When we were fleeing Himlad,” he began, directing Annatar attention to an ugly burn on his left side, “We were ambushed fairly close to Nargothrond, just a few Orcs, nothing much. It should have been a quick battle but…” Celebrimbor trailed off, his face taking on a wide-eyed look Annatar had come to associate with day dreams and plagues of melancholy.

“But?” He prompted, as he trailed a finger down the scar and smiled in secret delight as the other shivered.

“They had oil,” he said at last, “Oil and fire. We had already started the battle before we realized their plans, I was the closet when they lit the oil,” Here he laughed bitterly, a grim smile crossing his face as he continued, “As it was, I was lucky to survive the ordeal, luckier than others.”

The words echoed in the his head as Annatar turned them over, if Celebrimbor had died there on the plains of Beleriand, the plans he had made when the War of Wrath was over would be much harder to act upon. Gil-galad and the others had turned him away, after all, and without Celebrimbor it would be much harder to gain the elves trust. It was funny, he mused, In the First Age he wouldn't have given a second thought to Celebrimbor’s death, the death of Feanor’s grandson would have been a victory no doubt but nothing to celebrate.

Celebrimbor would have been just another name on the ever growing list of dead Princes and Kings, unimportant.

Instead of saying this, however, he simply said, “I am glad you are still here.”

(And if that lie was a truth, it was forgotten in the long moments when Celebrimbor kissed him.)

* * *

 

“This one,” Celebrimbor laughed, as Annatar’s breath tickled the thin scar on his shoulder, “Was from a childhood accident in the hills outside my Mother’s home.”

“What happened?”

Celebrimbor smiled then, and Annatar wondered if he would be able to catch the light of such a thing in the stone or metal of the rings they were making, “I fell down a hill.”

Annatar grinned, pointed and sharp, it was amusing to think of the noble lord of Eregion as a carefree child, and, to others prehaps, saddening, so he bent and placed a small kiss on the scar, “You were a clumsy child then?”

“A little,” he admitted, twisting to place a small, chaste kiss on Annatar's cheek, "I can recall a few times when my parents had to stop me from from running into other people or tripping over something more sensible children would have avoided."  

* * *

 

There is another scar on Celebrimbor’s right hip, a long, wide strip of sliver, opposite of the lower half of the burn scar on the other side of his body. Annatar, despite everything, rather liked that one particular scar.

It might have had something to do with how Celebrimbor arched into his touch when kissed it.

“This one?” Annatar asked, bent over to blow on the scar lightly, and he smiled as Celebrimbor shivered, “How did you get this one?

” “The first battle we fought in Beleriand, I was there,” He said, and he groaned as Annatar ran his tongue along his hipbone, “An Orc, a large, ugly thing, surprised me while I was watching my Fathers back.”

“I would have thought you were too young to fight in that battle,” Annatar said, looking at the elf with shaded eyes.

Celebrimbor smiled bitterly, “I was old enough to carry a sword.”

 

* * *

The last scar is the one Celebrimbor is most reluctant to tell him about.

“It shouldn’t have happened,” Is all he would say on the matter, "I shouldn't have listened," before turning the conversation elsewhere and refusing to give Annatar the opening he needed to bring it up again.

He had his suspicions of course, and it was frustrating to no end, not being able to voice them, but his patient paid off, and Celebrimbor called him to his room one night and confirmed Annatar's suspicions.

“I killed at Alqualondë,” Celebrimbor whispered, his eyes disant, as if he were recalling some distant dream instead of a memory as the wind blew through open balcony doors and the moon casted shadows on his face as he sat by at a table near the open doors, “I stood and fought with the rest of my family as the Teleri defended their boats and we slaughtered them.”

Annatar did not know remorse, he regretted very few things in his life after all, most of them failures on the battle field he would be sure not to repeat again. He never once gave a second thought to the lives he took, but from the look on the elf’s face Celebrimbor did.

He would have to choose his words carefully from now on. “I am sorry,” he said, crossing the room ro place a comforting hand on the elf’s shoulder, “That you had to make such a decision.”

“Don't be sorry for me,” Celebrimbor snapped, shrugging Annatar’s hand off and glaring at some point in the distance, “Rather be sorry for the ones I killed, the mothers who will never see their children again and the widows I made.”

“There is little use in feeling sorry for those you do not know,” Annatar replied, as he smothered a surge of irritation that welled up within him, “And it is useless to dwell on the past when you cannot change it. Look rather toward the future and help build a new life for your people.”

Saying this was a risk he knew, but would be well worth it if it played out like he hoped.

“Bloodied hands are not suited to create life,” Celebrimbor said, his eyes reflected the darkness of the night sky, as he looked toward the window, “For the stains cannot be removed and will only taint what they create.”

“And yet your hands will create marvels,” Annatar said, gently reaching out and taking Celebrimbor’s hands into his own, “For only one who knows misery and war may create a place of happiness for others. Your hands are marvellous Celebrimbor, do not think otherwise.” A silence stretched between them then. One thinking, and the other waiting. the silence silver between them.

“Perhaps,” Celebrimbor said at last, looking down at their joined hands, “You are right.” There was doubt in his face still, but a faint glimmer of hope as well.

Annatar smiled, and it was gold.


End file.
